


You Can Stay As Long As You Like

by boxoftheskyking



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluffy as hell, M/M, Multi, band au, kinda angsty, there's a baby sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-12
Updated: 2012-09-12
Packaged: 2017-11-14 02:40:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/510443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boxoftheskyking/pseuds/boxoftheskyking
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're in a band. Stiles won't sing. Challenge accepted.</p>
<p>'“Me?”</p>
<p>Scott blinks at him. Stiles blinks back. It’s like some strange twentysomething male Morse code, and Allison has to hide her face in her sweater sleeves to keep from laughing.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Can Stay As Long As You Like

**Author's Note:**

  * For [neenya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/neenya/gifts).



> Oh, and if you're curious, this (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E_D0i7UC9UY&feature=related) is the song to play at the end.

Scott is staring thoughtfully into space, which rarely leads to Good Things.

“We gotta get Stiles to sing.”

There’s a comical screech of feedback as Jackson deliberately drops his mic. Allison looks up from tuning her fiddle to send him a dirty look, then looks curiously at Scott.

“Like, really sing?”

“Yeah, I guess we’re lacking our ‘Octopus’s Garden.’ Ringo still got laid. Somehow.” Scott glowers at Jackson, who flashes his fangs back.

“Never mind. Forget I said anything.”

Danny comes over from the corner, where he’s been untangling and plugging in the rat’s nest of cords. 

“Stiles can sing?”

“Of course he can’t.” Jackson looks between the three of them like the only sane man in an asylum. “Which doesn’t mean he doesn’t. I don’t know what you’re talking about, Scott. In the shower, in the car, waiting for the bus, backstage, in the kitchen, on the toilet—”

“That doesn’t count, though,” Allison says, reasonably. She plays a rich, mellow D and fiddles with the peg. “That’s more like … howling.”

Scott chuckles at her choice of words, while Jackson rolls his eyes.

“He used to. Sing, I mean. For real. I haven’t heard it in years. It was always … I think I was the only one who knew he still could.” Allison sets the violin on her lap and nods at him, eyebrows quirked up in the middle. Jackson sighs again. “Shut up, Jackson. He hasn’t sung for anyone but me since …”

He trails off and looks at his shoes, uncomfortable and wondering if he shouldn’t have just kept his mouth shut.

“Since his mom,” Danny finishes, nodding. Scott shrugs.

“I just think— Ugh, I don’t know what I think. I think this whole— I mean the whole— Us, this, the band. You know? It’s good for him. For all of us. And I think, maybe, it’s time?”

Allison and Danny nod, encouraging. Jackson has the decency to look a little ashamed, and he unplugs the mic.

“I miss it,” Scott says, shrugging. “I really miss it. I guess. I think he’d— I don’t know.”

“We’ll think about it,” Allison smiles that brain-melting smile. “We’ll figure it out. Now get back to tuning; that’s gotta be his jeep outside. He should really get it looked at.”

Danny groans, “I keep telling him that. But it’s all ‘Remember what happened last time I took my car in. I mean, come on. Jackson said he was sorry.”

By the time Stiles trips on the last step and almost somersaults into the room, they’re all laughing. Scott helps him up and maybe leaves a hand on his back for a few seconds too long. Stiles doesn’t seem to mind. 

\-------

Allison ends up solving the problem of Stiles Singing, though unintentionally. He and Scott had reached a kind of stalemate—Scott refusing to collaborate with HaleFire for their new album (“Studio time, Scott. Studio. Time. For. Free. Would you like me to say it in Spanish? Good, ‘cause I don’t know how to say that in Spanish.”), and Stiles refusing to sing. Scott offers him top billing on the new posters. Stiles doesn’t care, and promises not to make moon-eyes at the HaleFire singer next time they open. Scott calls him a coward, Stiles calls him a misanthrope with no business sense. Scott burns a CD of all the old folk songs Stiles and his mom and Scott and Melissa used to sing on road trips to the beach, while cooking dinner, and keeps it in his car. He takes it out after the first day, though, when Stiles’ eyebrows crook together and he bites his chapped lips so hard they bleed. Both at once, pulled in like the beginning of a “P” sound or a “B” sound, like “Please” or “Panic” or maybe “Back the fuck off, Scott.”

Then, Allison gets pregnant. That sounds bad, like an accident. I mean, it is an accident, but not a bad one. Allison and Scott have essentially been together since day one, so there’s none of the on-again-off-again drama that Lydia and Jackson keep bringing into the room. When Allison tells Scott, he falls off the couch and breaks his nose on the cheap-ass IKEA coffee table. When Scott tells Stiles, he starts to cry and sits on the floor behind the couch for fifteen minutes while Scott leans over the back and asks rhetorical questions about daycare and insurance and why infants would ever need shoes. 

Stiles goes to see Allison the same night, and just hugs her. He doesn’t say anything, just curls up on the arm of her third-fourth-fifth-hand recliner and hugs tight around her shoulders, kissing her hair and trying really hard not to cry again. Allison laughs lightly, a little breathy exhale, and leans into him. They stay there for a long time, until Scott comes home and lifts Allison in his arms, taking her place on the chair and curling the pair of them into his lap.

At sixteen weeks, they officially ask Stiles to be godfather. He blinks, opens and shuts his mouth a few times, and blinks again. 

“Me?”

Scott blinks at him. Stiles blinks back. It’s like some strange twentysomething male Morse code, and Allison has to hide her face in her sweater sleeves to keep from laughing.

“Who else would it be?” Scott asks blankly.

“Oh,” Stiles replies, equally blank. Allison thunks her head down on the table. 

“What Scott means,” she says, straightening up. “Is that we would really really like you to be godfather, because we love you, and we trust you, and you are going to be just about as involved in this kid’s life as we are. You’re Scott’s best friend, you’re my best friend, just agree, okay?”

Stiles blinks a few more times. “Me, though? I— I’m not—”

Scott gapes at him. “Dude, you so are.”

“Yeah?”

“Oh, yeah.”

Stiles smiles cautiously, and Scott beams at him. 

At twenty-two weeks, they find out it’s a girl. As far as they can tell, anyway. Allison immediately issues a ban on all thing pink, which is revised when Scott comes home with an amazing bright pink parka. (“It’s a pink marshmallow! She’s the Michelin girl!” Allison squeals and squishes it in her arms.) 

They’re in Scott and Allison’s kitchen (which has just switched over from “Scott’s kitchen” to “Scott-and-Allison’s kitchen,” gaining some seriously great appliances in the process. Stiles may or may not be in love with the popcorn maker.), leaning against the counter and the fridge and waiting for hot water to boil.

 Scott is telling a hugely exaggerated story about girls hitting on Stiles at the bar last night. Allison is laughing delightedly, more at Stiles’ sputtered protests and pink face than at the actual story. She has her thumbs tucked into the pockets of her brand new maternity dress, fingers playing over the just-noticeable curve of her belly. 

“You’re gonna have to calm it down, man,” Scott laughs, kicking Stiles’ foot. “No more of this chasing chicks thing. The heavy drinking.”

Allison and Stiles snort. Scott puts a hand over his heart and stares at them, seriously. “I mean it. You’re gonna be an uncle.”

Stiles sighs dramatically. “And Beacon Hills turns into a convent. Vibrator sales skyrocket. There is much wailing and tearing of hair.”

“Stiles,” Allison says with raised eyebrows. “Light of my life. I don’t ever want to hear you talking about vibrators. Ever again.”

Scott giggles, but Stiles’ face turns thoughtful. “I’m gonna be an uncle. Huh. Uncle.”

 Scott makes a face.

“What?” Allison pokes him in the side. “Why the face?”

“You know why. It reminds me of—”

“Uncle Peter,” Stiles shivers. Uncle Peter is HaleFire’s manager. No one knows his actual name, or if he’s actually anyone’s uncle (word is that he’s related to Derek, but jury’s out on whether he’s an uncle, a stepdad, or some weird-ass cousin.). They only have to deal with him when they open for the other band, but that’s enough to leave an unpleasant taste in anyone’s mouth.

Allison wrinkles her nose. “Enough said.”

“Maybe she can just call me The Godfather.” Stiles makes what he claims is his Marlon Brando face, though Allison always says it looks more like his constipated goldfish face.

“It doesn’t matter, anyway,” she says as the kettle clicks off. “You’ll be Papa. Tea or cocoa, Scott?”

Stiles gapes. “What?” he squeaks out.

Scott blinks at him. “Oh yeah. Cocoa, please. Yeah, I’m Dad, she’s Mom, you’re Papa. Duh. Oh, hey, I got marshmallows!”

Allison punches the air. “Saturday saved!”

“Wait, wait, wait, guys, guys, wait back up.”

They look at him, hands full of cocoa packets and marshmallows, Scott holding the bag upside down so a few fall out onto the floor.

“Papa?”

“Yeah.” Allison smiles her bemused little okay-there-Stiles? smile.

“You want your kid to call me Papa?”

Scott shrugs. “We already do. I mean, when we talk to her.”

“It’s okay, baby,” Allison whispers, addressing her belly but grinning up at Stiles. “Papa Stiles is just freaking out. He does that sometimes.” 

Stiles sits on the floor in front of the fridge, gaping at his knees. The others look at him, then at each other. Allison bites her lip, concerned. Scott shakes his head. He makes three cups of cocoa and piles on the marshmallows. Stiles doesn’t move.

“Okay,” Scott says lightly, sits down next to him, handing him a mug. Allison kneels down on his other side and takes a satisfied sip. They stay there for the rest of the afternoon, watching the sunlight crawl down the wall and across the floor.

The singing. We’re getting there.

It’s coming up on three AM; they finished playing about two hours ago, but they’ve been crashed out in the green room ever since. The manager of Franco’s was a good friend of Isaac’s brother, so they pretty much get to do whatever they want. The immediate post-show high has calmed into a soft, sweet haze. Most of HaleFire had come to the gig, and loved the new songs. Jackson’s been grinning like an idiot when the others aren’t looking, because Derek Hale clapped him on the shoulders and said Jackson’s voice had given him goosebumps. Someone liveblogging the show had tweeted “OH MY GOD so in love with Pregnant Fiddler Girl #FrancosLiveMusic,” which amused Allison to no end. (“Can I be a superhero now? That sounds like a superhero.”)

She’s stretched out on the couch, Stiles on the floor in front of her with his head leaning on her stomach. Scott has pulled a chair up to sit next to them, and is picking out bits of things on his acoustic. Jackson and Lydia are canoodling in the corner under the pretense of working on new lyrics. Danny is asleep with a magazine across his face.

Scott is singing lightly, little snatches of things. He has a nice voice, no power behind it like Jackson’s, but a warm sleepy quality. He stops one song, thinks for a moment, and tries out a few chords.

“Wait, how did— Oh, yeah, B minor.” He starts picking out a classical style intro. Stiles recognizes and looks up at him with big eyes and a small smile.

“The sun is surely sinking down,” Scott starts to sing as Allison’s eyes slide closed. Stiles hums along lightly, major thirds dancing along the line of Scott’s melody. 

“I don’t know no love songs, I can’t sing the blues anymore.” Scott’s thinking about his mom and Anna Stilinski in the front seat of the car, singing along as their sons dozed in the back.

“We’re gonna have— Wait, no,” he falters, fingers slipping off the strings as he chases the words.

“Won’t be long before another day,” Stiles sings lightly, gently correcting. “And we’re gonna have a good time.”

Scott comes back in on guitar, quieter, not looking at Stiles but listening, barely breathing. Stiles keeps singing and Scott brings around another chorus. Jackson and Lydia have fallen silent in their corner, looking over with something vulnerable in their eyes. Allison is watching the side of Stiles’ face as he sings to Scott’s feet, running a finger down the side of his neck.

Scott thinks his voice sounds like wool. He’s not very good at metaphors, but it’s a little scratchy and it’s warm and it’s thick, but it’s bends and folds and twists like fabric. Like really brightly colored wool, like those blankets with patterns woven into them in red and yellow and blue. Something like that.

He cracks a little on the high note, corrects with a shaky smile that worms its way into the sound. Scott dares to bring the first verse back, counterpointing an easy harmony. Stiles looks at him with wet eyes and nods when Scott adds a suspension, drawing out a cadence into the chorus again. Allison watches the pair of them, and Scott thinks her smile looks like an actual angel’s. Not, like, in a cliche way, but like something that would be in an old painting, the ones where the light looks like people are glowing from the inside. 

He has to end the song eventually, letting the last chord ring out and drift into silence before sniffing into the back of his hand.  Stiles wipes his eyes and turns, pressing a kiss to Allison’s hand, then her belly.

“Why now?” Jackson asks from across the room, soft-voiced and gentle.

“Kids need lullabies,” Stiles replies with a shrug. “Everybody does, I think.”

Scott lets the silence deepen for a few seconds, then sees Stiles’ face start to tighten, shoulder start to round. He plucks out an E chord, adds a 6, and walks the bass up to and A chord. Stiles relaxes, and he goes back to picking out melodies. Allison falls asleep. Stiles doesn’t sing again this night, but he will.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [You Can Stay As Long As You Like [Podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/527567) by [rosewindow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosewindow/pseuds/rosewindow)




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